The Convict's Daughter Page 12

  Holroyd left the statement dangling and signalled to Webb that he was dismissed and could return to his seat. Kinchela’s counsel did likewise, confused by the menacing buzz that had suddenly filled the room. The defendant nodded swiftly at his counsel and looked away. This might have been brilliant stagecraft for the London courts, but in Sydney it was horribly off-key and everyone but Holroyd knew it. The new chum lawyer had not only insulted the jury’s intelligence and questioned the modesty of one of the colony’s young women by making a reference to one of the less reputable local parlours, but gravest of all he had made an allusion to Gill’s criminal past. Kinchela tapped at his cane. He was already longing for an interval, so he could draw succour from the liquid courage therein.

  Martin Gill was next in the witness box. He fixed his collar and locked eyes with the prosecutor. ‘Mr Gill,’ Lowe began, ‘can you tell us what happened on the night of 21 May this year?’ ‘Webb came to my hotel,’ Gill started abruptly, ‘and told us,’ he said, gesturing to his wife, ‘that my daughter was at his establishment. It was well past ten o’clock and we could not believe it. We went looking about the house, but when we found she wasn’t there I went off with Webb, and found her at his establishment, and then I brought her back . . .’ he finished, his jaw set tight.

  ‘And did you give your daughter permission to embark upon this evening expedition?’ Lowe asked innocently. ‘Certainly not, sir,’ Gill replied with great indignation, ‘I would not,’ he insisted. ‘I would not want the girl out at night like that and,’ he turned to the court, ‘I would never give permission for her to meet with anyone at night, let alone the defendant,’ his voice rose half an octave before he swallowed and made himself calm down. ‘I very clearly told her before any of this had happened,’ he said, tapping his index finger on the bench as he set Kinchela in his sights, ‘that she was not to see him again.’ Lowe thanked his client and returned to his seat.

  Holroyd approached the witness with an air of mock confusion, asking in a playful tone if Kinchela had ever come to him and asked about Mary Ann. ‘Had there, for example, been talk of marriage?’ he asked coyly, to which Gill nodded. ‘Indeed, sir, and I put an end to that quick smart.’ Holroyd smiled sympathetically. ‘So Kinchela did ask you for your daughter’s hand, sir?’ he continued, and again Gill nodded. ‘Would you tell us why, sir,’ Holroyd asked, stepping back to gesture at his client, ‘you were so opposed to this match? Surely marriage to such a gentleman would afford certain advantages for your family and be of benefit to the girl?’ The court sucked in its breath and hushed to hear the answer. All eyes were on Mary Ann’s father, although one or two people turned to consider Kinchela, who was leaning forward, hoping to finally discover the source of Gill’s fierce loathing. Martin Gill looked about the gallery and then with some energy pointed his finger at Kinchela ready to release a great spume of pent-up vitriol.

  But before he could speak, Lowe objected. ‘The answer to such a question, my lord, is of no relevance. We all know that not only do the statutes in these cases reject a woman’s consent as a mitigating factor in this instance, but my client is at perfect liberty to take an active role in the choice of his daughter’s future husband.’ Manning nodded in agreement and Holroyd conceded the point with a flurry of one hand. Undeterred, Kinchela’s counsel unleashed his next question in a staccato pace clearly designed to unnerve the witness, ‘Mr Gill, did you or did you not throw two chairs and a table at your daughter when you visited her at her grandparents’ farm a week before she left your home?’

  Mary Ann heard her mother gasp. Up in the gallery the bumptious boy stood up and yelled out, ‘He did, he would, he flogged me, too, that Gill, damn his eyes.’ Manning quickly intervened, cautioning the court that ‘Martin Gill has been judged by his peers and found to be a man of character. It is the defendant, Mr Kinchela, who is on trial here today.’ He instructed primly, ‘Mr Holroyd, you must contain yourself to the matters in this case.’ Holroyd nodded but he was not done. ‘My Lord,’ he addressed the judge, ‘we have heard various rumours outside this court, which we believe are relevant to this matter because they bestow upon the delicate creature at the heart of this unfortunate affair compelling reasons to quit her home. Reasons,’ he flourished, ‘which appealed to the protective spirit of my unfortunate client and compelled him to assist her escape physical peril.’ Gill stared fiercely at Holroyd and Lowe stood to object until Manning waved him down and gestured at Kinchela’s lawyer to proceed with due caution. ‘I must ask you directly, sir,’ Holroyd said looking squarely at Martin Gill, ‘did you or did you not show your daughter your guns before threatening to murder her?’

  The court exploded in an uproar and Lowe rose again, this time greatly peeved. ‘I must insist that the court disallow this question and dismiss these insinuations as salacious gossip.’ Manning did not need anyone telling him how to nip matters in the bud. He pointed for Lowe to sit and gave Holroyd a look. ‘You may return to your seat now, Mr Gill, Mr Holroyd has quite exceeded his case here I am afraid. And may I extend my apologies for any offence experienced during this unusual line of questioning.’ Gill sneered at Kinchela’s counsel and fixed the back of his collar again before stepping from the witness box.

  Next, Lowe sought the mother’s story. By nature Margaret was ill-equipped to perform publicly but in her modest, almost monosyllabic, answers the court became perfectly apprised of her situation. She had ‘detected an intimacy between the pair,’ Margaret Gill explained, and had taken it upon herself to ask the gentleman to leave. ‘And then, I saw him hanging about the hotel from time to time, and once he even passed by the front door. I wondered if something might be about,’ she finished.

  Kinchela had not mentioned this exchange and Holroyd felt wrong-footed. Normally he would have cast doubt upon this woman’s morality as well as her maternal instinct, but he was getting a sense of the mood in the court and had a feeling it might be best to leave certain rocks unturned. He asked one or two questions of the witness and then quite abruptly signalled for her to return to her seat. He would need to put his finger on the pulse of whatever was going on before it was too late.

  At last it was Mary Ann’s turn to be called into the box, but it was now early afternoon and the court decided upon an adjournment for luncheon. Members of the public filed out to stretch their legs and the Gills followed Nichols so that they might take their luncheon with Lowe in his rooms. Wishing to enjoy what might be his last moments of freedom, Kinchela stepped out into the winter afternoon and strolled over to where his driver was resting with his horse and gig. The day had a good chill to it and despite the disappointments of the morning, Kinchela enjoyed the feeling of the frost pouring from his nostrils as well as the crunch of his boots over the last of the autumn leaves. He leant against the side of his mother’s vehicle and unfastened the gold lion’s head of his father’s cane, taking a quick swig and then another as he surveyed the view from the top of the Woolloomooloo Hill.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The Gloves Come Off

  While Robert Lowe regaled Martin Gill and his wife with stories in which his achievements featured prominently, Mary Ann sat in silence dreading all that was to follow. Although she was permitted to join the party for a simple luncheon, Margaret signalled to Lowe’s servant that she was not to be given any of the treats introduced at the conclusion of their meal. When the time came for them to return to the courtroom, Martin and Margaret trailed off after Lowe, who sprang from the chair the moment the announcement came that proceedings were to resume. Bob Nichols lingered behind, and when the room was empty but for the serving girl he turned to Mary Ann. ‘You must be hungry, child?’ he asked gently. ‘A shame not to eat when you will need your strength.’ He placed a small tart inside the girl’s gloved hand and Mary Ann gulped it down. It tasted like apricot jam and the sweetness of the thing was so stunning that she blinked several times before giving Nichols a grateful look. He returned a kind but brief smile and motioned that they must p
ress forward.

  Mary Ann stepped inside the courtroom, stealthily wiping any suggestion of crumbs from her dress as she tried to compose herself. Having watched all those clever men during the morning session she was now gripped with dread for all she was to face. They were going to delight in her shame, she realised, and feed her to a crowd hungry for her ruin.

  No sooner did the court recorder announce that proceedings had resumed than her name was called. Margaret nudged her daughter, and next thing Mary Ann was walking down the aisle and up into the witness box. She closed the door to the box behind her and turned to face the court. Immediately she saw James Butler. Her heart lifted at the sight of him but then plunged suddenly as she considered all that was to unfold.

  From the box she could see her father’s lawyer watching her with detached amusement, like a cat, paw poised above its prey. That strange-looking man with darkened spectacles and a twitching gaze—he was hardly human, she thought, and certainly not at all manly like her James. She quickly became conscious of her parents, who were intently following her every move. Her father was sitting forward, eyes fixed on her, two fingers tapping his lips. Her mother, however, appeared distant as if she was somehow looking through her. Mary Ann looked over to James’ lawyer, whose penetrating blue eyes were also sizing her up. Behind her parents she saw her grandparents, who seemed so humble and small against the elevated ceiling of the courtroom, she could not quite believe they were the same people she had known all her life. Mary Ann allowed her eyes to shift back to James and for no more than a few split seconds, if even that, the pair looked at one another and as they did so she realised—they were both done for.

  Mary Ann moaned, to herself at first, but as the noise escaped out into the courtroom it was heard by some of the audience. A gaggle of rough-looking women in expensive dress seated near Mrs Kelly leant over the gallery barrier to get a closer look and some began to whisper excitedly to one another. A collective hush descended across the entire court and Mary Ann’s breathing sharpened as her head began to spin. She held a gloved hand to a shaft of late afternoon sunlight and noticed she was shaking. She placed the same hand onto the ledge of the witness box and swallowed hard.

  And then, the young witness began to weep. It was hardly audible at first, but the more Mary Ann tried to bury it the more violent her crying became. So she stood helplessly before the court, face obscured by her bonnet, slight body wracked with sobs. Kinchela shifted uncomfortably in his seat, as did Margaret Gill. For several moments the courtroom was held in the thrall of Mary Ann’s heart-wrenching sounds until finally Manning coughed dryly and insisted that the witness compose herself. ‘You must command your feelings in the court, Miss Gill,’ he said, ‘and perform the solemn duty required of you.’ The witness sniffed and nodded. After wiping at her face with her gloved knuckles she took several deep breaths and finally lifted her face to the court.

  Lowe approached the witness box and gently asked Mary Ann to recall the events leading up to her ‘little elopement’, taking pains to ask questions that required her to dwell upon the occasions when the lodger, James Butler Kinchela, had been most assertive in demonstrating his affections. He made Mary Ann recall the finer details of their exchange at the window; her meeting with Kinchela at Somerville’s; the moment when Kinchela had burst into her bedroom at the Sportsman’s Arms; the note Kinchela had written for her the following morning.

  Lowe insisted that the note contained proof of the promise Kinchela had made three times earlier that he intended to wed her. ‘Although, perhaps,’ the wily lawyer paused, ‘we need to consider if the defendant was using this promise to conceal a more vile purpose? The evidence suggests that it is entirely possible,’ he continued brusquely, ‘that Mr Kinchela sought to trick Miss Gill into thinking he wanted to wed her, when he had no intention of so doing. You see,’ Lowe said, as Mary Ann shook her head, ‘once the defendant had been removed from the family’s hotel by the mother, he took matters into his own hands because, like many of his sort, he considered himself above the law and had little regard for my client’s paternal authority.’

  Mary Ann stood frozen by the horror of it. Lowe stepped back from the witness and stifled a smug smile. Then he turned to the jury and with great solemnity reminded them that as both fathers and men of the colony it was their responsibility to determine if the evidence was sufficient to secure a conviction. ‘Without a marriage licence, we can only conclude that the defendant had lured Miss Gill from her home with the sole objective of seducing her.’ This roused yet another ripple of titillation and several newspaper reporters wrote furiously in their notebooks. ‘If that is the case,’ Lowe continued with a grave expression, ‘the girl is indeed most fortunate that her father’s energetic devotion has protected her from such an eternal shame.’

  No sooner had Lowe returned to his seat than Kinchela’s counsel strode towards the witness box. He would need to strike hard and fast if he was to counteract the prosecutor’s unpalatable suggestions. Holroyd did so by asking the witness to repeat her previous account word for word and as she did so, stopped to focus upon different episodes, beginning with Mary Ann’s shocking presence in Mrs Kelly’s front parlour. ‘How is it,’ he asked, ‘that my client was not at the agreed destination when you first arrived there, Miss Gill, and why do you think he was also not at the Sportsman’s Arms when you arrived there?’ Mary Ann shook her head. It was a question for which she still had no answer and it still stung. ‘Perhaps,’ Holroyd began, ‘we might entertain the possibility that you simply knew where my client would be and had the cunning to precede him to each destination so that when he arrived you would be there waiting for him?’ Mary Ann shook her head vigorously. ‘No, sir,’ she said firmly. ‘Mr Kinchela had given me clear instructions, and I followed these on each occasion. He promised to meet me, and,’ she stopped, feeling breathless, ‘he made me promise to meet him. Twice.’

  Holroyd shrugged doubtfully and asked Mary Ann to recount her voyage to Cutt’s the following morning, ‘when you once more decided to quit your father’s home without his permission’. Mary Ann blushed and recounted how Somerville ‘knew where to take me’. ‘And then, Miss Gill,’ Holroyd asked, ‘when Mr Kinchela was not where he said he would be again, you say Somerville came back with a letter?’ Mary Ann gulped. She was still incensed by these events and wanted James to understand what he had done, but, when she looked at him, Kinchela’s head was bowed.

  Holroyd pushed on. ‘Miss Gill, will you tell the court how you came to leave Mrs Beaton’s Inn and find yourself in the hands of Police Constable John Ryan?’ Mary Ann shook her head; she had no desire to recount how she had tried to escape from the young policeman. But Holroyd dragged it from her phrase by phrase and in such a way that prompted one of the Cabbagers to call out, ‘Bet she could outrun you, your honour,’ which provoked a flurry of hooting from the gallery.

  Holroyd paced the court, tapping the side of his nose with his index finger as he waited for the court’s full attention. Eventually he turned to the witness, ‘Tell me, Miss Gill,’ he said, ‘have you not stated out of court that it was the ill-usage you received from your father that compelled you to leave his house?’ Lowe leapt from his chair again, but before he could speak, Holroyd pushed on, all the while fixing the witness with his fierce blue eyes. ‘In truth, girl, tell the court, was it not this, rather than my client, that made you quit your father’s home?’

  Mary Ann winced to think of the consequences, but in the quick seconds that ensued, she could also see there might be a chance for James in this. She stood, dead still, heart pulsing, unable to form words, wanting desperately to say something that might change everything for the better. She looked at her parents. Her father glowered at her and she bit her lip. Lowe strode to the judge’s bench. ‘This, your honour,’ he insisted, ‘is the same petty blow Mr Holroyd attempted this morning.’ He turned to the jury, ‘and it cannot be allowed.’ Manning was peeved by Lowe’s interjection. He instructed the witness
to return to her seat which Mary Ann did, noticing that her skirts brushed past Kinchela as she stepped through the tables to her chair. Her mother cast a sideways glance at her, but Mary Ann lowered her head and returned her gaze to her gloves.

  It was now well past eight o’clock in the evening and one or two of the jurors were checking their pocket watches and looking at the door. They were getting to the end of this, surely. Holroyd read the mood: he must deliver several rapid but lethal blows, he realised. This was his moment and there was no chance for Lowe to upstage him. ‘Men of the jury,’ he began, taking a sure stride towards the tired looking tanners and factory bosses in the box, ‘surely you would agree that this young woman has demonstrated a determination to get married that was not entirely, or perhaps even slightly, matched by the object of her affection?’ His voice was thick with syrup. ‘I ask you to consider if you have at your disposal any facts that confirm that Mr Kinchela even encouraged the girl to leave her home at all? Facts, I must hurry to qualify, that are not dependent upon the word and whims of a young girl, who like many of her age is highly susceptible to all sorts of imaginings and romantic yearnings?’

  He smiled sadly at Mary Ann and shook his head. ‘Is it not clear,’ he sighed, ‘that the poor child was desperately in love with Mr Kinchela and that she had, in fact, run all over town after him. Could this unfortunate young gentleman be so deficient in gallantry that he had any choice but to be chained hand and glove to her, particularly,’ he coughed and raised his eyebrows, ‘once she had recounted her unfortunate domestic circumstances?’ He fixed the jury with a solemn expression, ‘Yes, certainly, it is natural for a woman in her situation to strain every nerve to shield herself from blame so that she might regain her position one day. We understand her need to do so. But,’ he paused to consider Kinchela who was now looking quite withdrawn, ‘to incriminate my unfortunate client,’ he said shaking his head, ‘surely a young girl’s folly is too great a burden for even this good gentleman to bear?’ There was a swell of murmurs about the court as Holroyd nodded politely to the jury and returned to his seat.